Delay like bubbles each one dispersing a new fraction of your self. You percolating there, all water dreaming of being steam, thoughts of heaven.
That hand on your face pushing you further and further into the black can only be your own. Your thoughts sound metallic now. Echoing loudly in what used to be your ears. Down into the silt goes the flesh and from it beautiful things will rise and evaporate and cease to be.
from Catch-Wave (1975)